Sun, May. 21st, 2006, 08:56 pm
So, conclusions I have drawn so far:
1) The meaning of life is people. I had to stumble all over the place to figure that one out, and I finally crashed into the answer. I didn't figure it out for myself, either, because I don't think I could've. Someone practically whispered the answer into my ear. I feel like I've cheated.
2) Life is confusing.
3) The only way to deal with #2 is to wildly do what you want and hope that with all your experience, life will begin to make sense. Like Hurston said, all folks "got tuh find out about livin' fuh themselves."
4) Of course, life isn't going to make sense no matter what you do. So be a hedonist and do what you want until your morals restrain you.
5) Life is full of paradoxes. If you're mindboggled over them, get educated and maybe you'll feel better about how chaotic everything is. It'll help you impose order on some minute thing or the other, and that'll occupy your time.
6) Enjoy everything as much as you can. You'll be depressed some days, yes, and upset some others, but realize that these are for a reason. Resolve them so that you can enjoy everything else.
Tue, May. 16th, 2006, 10:24 pm
Watching people on the street is interesting.
On the car ride home I spied the usual group of kids crowding at the streetlight corner, waiting to cross. Some of them pull rolling backpacks and rush along the wavy concrete bobbing up and down.
It's an ethnic mix, as always--a number of Hispanics, a black kid or two, and perhaps the occasional whitey. I usually take note of these kids because of the great variance between them, in height, weight, dress, mannerism, race--there are lots of variables. I found that once you drive by the junior high the kids all begin to look the same.
I remember a pink-shirted brunette, maybe five years old. Her stomach rounded on top of her legs almost as if she were pregnant, and her hair was wrapped in two wispy pigtails sticking from the sides of her head. Short and little.
A few steps after her was a thin woman with ratty, dirty blond hair, about 40. I'd never seen an adult without a child on this street corner. Her old frosty jeans tapered across her long calves to her thin ankles, and a black jean vest wrapped over her slouching chest to reveal thin pockmarked arms, spotted with sun and years of age.
Upon a closer look it was painfully obvious she'd probably jammed needles into those pockmarks. Drug junkie. Skinny and wasted and walking saggedly swift, past the fat little 5 year old. They seemed of different worlds.
"She looks like a coke addict," I remarked in the car.
"Yeah, she's definitely a smoker," Eliot (carpool) nodded. Her eyes followed the druggie and my eyes followed Eliot. The two women had the same skin, the same frame, the same forward slouching shoulders of the tall and thin. They could've been sisters.
"Or it could be heroin."
More kids filtered past, so young and taut-skinned. The light turned green, we drove past in contemplation.
Eliot's husband had long been a chronic alcoholic. I sometimes wondered what would've happened had she been addicted to something, too.
I guess I saw it today.
Mon, May. 15th, 2006, 11:09 pm
A ridiculously long survey follows the cut.( Read more...Collapse )
That was probably too much information for anyone who reads this, and that’s hardly anybody. I have more thoughts in my head but I’ll write them elsewhere.
I feel like throwing up.
I don't mean, "I'd like to stick my finger in my mouth and tickle my pharynx until I stimulate my gag reflex." No, I don't mean that at all. My stomach is actually churning. I almost threw up several times in the last few days, but I can never manage to let anything out. This could be symbolic. It's me instinctively holding back all the acid, making myself swallow any piece of crap I put in my mouth. It's a sort of self-punishment and self-discipline.
It feels terrible, and it's probably not good for me, but even when I try to throw up, I can't do it. It'd make my mouth feel so unpleasant. I'd rather suffer and squirm in the depths of my gut. My mouth is too close to the surface, too close to the real world, too close to everything else outside to open up and let everything out.
But it's never a conscious decision to swallow the hydrochloric acid, force it back down. I don't remember, actually, what it's like to be completely, utterly overcome by the need to vomit. The last time that happened was maybe 3rd grade.
I'd like for that to happen again. All my rational functions would cease, my physiological instincts would take over--then there would be a big fluid plop on the floor, dripping and choking and chunky--but, alas. Not anymore. Any instance of the acid creeping up my throat and, flip, goes my epiglottis, and slip, the first bits of chyme slide back down the esophagus. And they plop onto the floor of my stomach.
It makes me feel sick, partly because it leaves me nauseous, and partly because I realize that I can't force myself to let go. It's a little obsessive-compulsive, actually, and that scares me.
Sometimes I feel like my neuroses might take over and win, and my little self will be swallowed up by overbearing needs and uncontrollable drives to do this or that Extremely Unimportant Thing. Sometimes I feel like I'm losing illuminetzi to unconscious violence, to repression and depression, to headaches and backaches and neckaches.
Hopefully, as all the other times, I'll just get through this.
I'll know better this time though. Instead of using stupid coping strategies--like going half-crazy--I'll actually deal with my problems at face-value and realize that I'm only human.
I am only human.
That sentence imposes/leaves/fills me with a simultaneous fright and calm.
That wasn't a sigh of relief, or contentment, or sadness. I dislike the word sigh, really, which is why I hardly use the emote /sigh.
You see, it was more like the brief breath you exhale before you take on a challenge. The puff of readiness that calms your lungs and sets your nerves in stone. The air pushed out, lips pulled into a tight "O", accompanied by either straightening shoulders or narrowing, focused eyes.
Well, yes. I'm ready.
I'm scared and I'm ready for whatever comes next. I like to think of breaks as a time to gather and recuperate and reset my mind before I enter the chaos again. It's just too bad that when I actually get a job and such I probably won't have very many opportunities to take real breaks.
But hopefully, by then, I'll have settled and figured things out and set a pattern which I will never deviate from lest something happen like, oh, I don't know. The death of my SO or a sudden absence of all laidback people on Earth. I mean--you know what I mean--there will be no person who I can turn to and hear the trustworthy words, "Don't worry."
"Things will be fine. Take it easy."
I know I'm neurotic. I couldn't pretend to be one of those laidback people, as much as I try. Though, in certain spaces, people could count me as part of the apathetic number, it isn't quite reality. Those 'certain spaces' would be filled with the petty types, the ones who are obsessed with obtaining such-and-such status or xxxxxx hair color or |this many| square feet of real estate. Of course I don't give a shit about any of that.
But don't mistake me for the calm Buddhist monk or the stoner walled inside his aromatic apartment. I. Can't. Relax. That. Much.
And oh well. I guess it's just something I'll have to deal with.
Wed, Mar. 22nd, 2006, 09:50 pm
Sorry for the proliferous entries. Really, I never intend to prattle like this. I've just been feeling like writing lately and creative things are boring me as of late. So I will just write about my life in my little blog pretending that lots of people flock by and actually read these things. I don't mind; I just need to egest words until they fall all over me.
Oh, that reminds me. I started writing something the other day. It's just short for now, I don't feel like expanding it yet. I have nowhere for it to go, though I anticipate it may go somewhere in the near future. Well, if not, I have a short little 577-piece for whatever purpose.
-----( CardboardCollapse )
Perhaps it's only a few stories that I've just stumbled upon, but I've noticed a rather disturbing trend in fiction nowadays. So I pick up a book and flip to a story. It's written rather informally, conversationally--even a bit peppy and girlish at times. 'tis a short story written in first person. All this so far is fine, I don't quite mind it. But then comes this point--the narrator is obnoxiously annoying. I realize that the author is doing this on purpose, but oh-my-fucking-god-it's-terrible. It hurts my brain to plow through all that feminine cutesy bitchiness.
Oh, and you'll say: "Just stop reading it, illuminetzi. Simple as that."
I could do that. But you might notice that I used the phrase 'disturbing trend'. The trend itself is not the disturbing thing; it's the way I'm strangely attracted to these pieces, and the way that I suspect others are attracted to them as well. It reveals a catty side of me I wish never existed, I guess.
I verily dislike being female sometimes. I never want to go through menopause. Please, save me from the horror! The terror! The controlling, bitchy, overemotional weeping! (heh as if weeping could be controlling.)
But yes enough of me. I think I'll go write an e-mail now to get all this other 'writing urge' out of my system.
A grey, dangling string eats the sky before you.
It occupies its space without pretension, without the private air of insecurity--without arrogance, presumption, lameness. Already this string has accomplished more than your idling self, you biting the tips of your fingernails and the backs of your knuckles.
How you want to just bite hard and lash away at your skin. How you just want to tear a big long strip of epidermis away until only raw red and white (and pink) speckled flesh shows through.
The string is still just hanging there, enticing, waiting for somebody to pull it.
And so you do.
And f'in hell rains down upon you.
A dark sticky mass of blood and people and guts of dead insects plops onto the floor. It sounds like suction, except backwards. Everything wet and slimy slurping, soiling the smooth wooden floor. You can smell hot steaming placenta and the acrid fumes of sweetly melting flesh as it falls down all around you--on you--mushed between your toes, under your fingernails, between the crevices of your wrinkled elbow. Everywhere. And it piles and piles and piles on top of your poor scrawny frame, burying you deep underneath an indistinguishable mass of disgustingly dead body parts.
You open your mouth and can't manage to say a thing. You don't squeak forth. You don't gasp or moan or yell or anything. When you open your mouth the only sound is that backward suction. Butchered cow intestines reaching inside your throat. Thick purple blood pooling around your warm tonsils. Fragile lacewings tickling the hollows of your cheek.
And a pumping gag reflex jerks your head forward, but there's nowhere to jerk forward. Your eyes fly open and smush into more shiny red membranes, pig stomachs and chicken livers.
Those are the last few convulsions of your small, idling, weak body. And then you die, and who the fuck knows what happens to you next.
That, my dears, is what angst does to your writing. It sounds like something a screamo band would sing about.
Can't you just imagine their epic guitar riffs and the moaning lead singer, clenching his fists knuckle-white? Can't you just imagine everyone in the audience going fucking insane? Can't you imagine the girls screaming their brains out, coughing up bits of blood and pieces of their lungs? Can't you imagine the mass of human sweat and pain rocking out together in the most mindblowingly awesome concert of their lives?
And then it'd end. Everybody tired from expressing their intense, petty, overwhelming human suffering. Everyone's mind gone blank in the best exhaustion they'd ever felt.
Then they'd stumble out to their cars, and sleep, or drive slowly over to their motels or hotels or Goebbels. They'd nap soundly, happily, smilingly. Then they'd fucking wake up two months later, feeling the same aggressive rage, rocking out all by their oddy knocky selves to a sweet screamo song they once headbanged to at the best concert of their lives.
Anyway, I'm just being delirious. I can't think straight. I hope this goes away real soon.
I forget what greatness is. I don't remember the swelling feeling of admiration anymore. I haven't felt any newness or awe for ages, it seems. All I know is this floundering aimlessness called adolescent confusion.
This is why I like to learn. I'm grounded when I've something to pursue, to analyze, to learn. Otherwise I just feel so lost.
Oh well. Tomorrow I am going to see my hero, and I think that might take care of things.
So I got my paper back and now most of my entries are public once again. It bothers me a bit that people don't quite understand my writing. And those that do still think I'm bizarre and much too overanalytical for my own good. Ah well, c'est la vie.
Let me show you s'more of my writing.( War.Collapse )
Now I know that didn't quite make sense since I took it out of context of the paper. But yes. It's comprehensible enough, don't you think?
Eh I suppose I just crave recognition, as always.
Heh the piece was rather angsty, as true to adolescent form (which makes me think they'd be able to relate to it even more!). Agh.
Here's another piece to read if you so desire. Writing is supposed to be shared, after all.( doesn't have a title.Collapse )
Anyway I'll stop gorging myself now.
My excuse: I haven't written anything proper here in awhile so here you all are. A nice long entry full of bullshit. Bon appetit!
Tue, Jan. 17th, 2006, 06:38 pm
Just wrote something. A little something, nothing that'll explode into anything. A stress-relieving sort of thing.
No, stress is the wrong word. 'tis anxiety, not stress, the sort of chest-tightening shallow-breathing anxiety that's never good for you. A constricted sort of pain that says, 'fuck little stressors, this is a big fucking thing and you better take care of it!'
I don't know what my body is telling me, and no one's been able to figure it out ever since I got my first headache. Maybe it's just defective and running the same repeated error over and over and over without repairing itself. I need Registry Mechanic for my brain.
Anyway, here 'tis.( machinationsCollapse )
Yeah, nothing special.